


“Capital Letters Were Always The Best Way Of Dealing With Things You Didn’t Have A Good Answer To.”

by notjustmom



Series: Towel Day 2018 [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Douglas Adams, First Kiss, M/M, Towel Day 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 21:49:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14819507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: He knew a lot of stuff about a lot of things, but he didn't have a good answer for John Watson. He didn't even know the question.





	“Capital Letters Were Always The Best Way Of Dealing With Things You Didn’t Have A Good Answer To.”

He knew about ash, all kinds of ash, at last count about 230 types. Ash, he understood. He understood what drove people to smoke, or set things aflame. He understood the need to watch things burn from the inside out. He knelt down and sighed as he observed the crumpled empty packet, the half-smoked butt and the half-arsed way the victim had stepped on it. John never did anything half-arsed. Wait. Delete. Delete. Dele- Never mind. He slowly got to his feet and circled the corpse again. He could hear Donovan's smirk behind him, and then she crossed her arms. Waiting for the day. Waiting for the day when he went wrong. He knelt again. Fingers. Intact. Good. No wedding ring. Wait. There had been one until recently. How did he know that? How did he - he knew because of the pale ring of skin around his ring finger, his clothes were still well-maintained, but his socks, though nearly the right shade of indigo, were wrong. A significant other, a partner, who still paid attention, close attention, would never have let him go out into the world with mismatching socks. John always noticed his socks, or if he had bought a new shirt, or had recently had his hair trimmed. Why?

I DON'T KNOW. 

He huffed impatiently, then pulled out his magnifier to examine the head wound again, gravel, mud in the wound, bit of glass. The victim had been above average in height, thin, but in good shape, a runner - does that matter? If he had been afraid, he could have outrun his killer. So, he hadn't been afraid, then, he had trusted - trust. He felt John's eyes on him, watching him curiously, reading him, though he wasn't sure John knew he was doing it. Why do I trust him? Step back. NOW.

"John? Thoughts?" He stepped back and crossed his arms, as John took his place next to the body. Breathe. Just -

"Coshed him on the back of the head. So he turned his back on his killer. He was tall-ish -"

"Tall-ISH?"

John looked up at him, and drew off his gloves. "A bit taller than you, I'd say, about 6'1", maybe as tall as 6'3"... so his assailant was either taller or shorter..."

"Stands to reason, unless he or she was of the same height."

"Right." John smiled that lopsided smile that was reserved for him, and he dropped to his knees. Bloody hell. Not here. Get it together Holmes. "Either way, he turned his back on them, trusted them, or they snuck up behind him. He had been waiting for someone, though, maybe the ex, or the new partner, he had been married until recently, for a long time, at least long enough to leave a tan line. Killer's a woman, I think."

Sherlock blinked at him, but found he couldn't speak.

"Perfume, not cheap, Chanel, I think. Bit of powder on his collar, but she didn't kiss him. No lipstick. Strawberry blonde hair, could be dyed -"

He knew it wasn't the time, it was precisely the wrong time, exactly not the right time, but there would never be a right time, all he knew at the moment was, he needed to kiss him. He leaned over the corpse, stretched out a trembling gloved hand which began pulling John closer until he could feel John's breath against his lips and he angled his head just enough so he could press his lips against John's. Silence. Utter, complete, blissful silence. The questions he couldn't even begin to form in his head were answered as he felt John's fingers in his hair for just the briefest of moments before he breathed again and pulled away.

" - and there are footprints, well, shoe prints, stillettos, could be the from the person who called it in, but -"

He cleared his throat and finally found his voice again. "Considering the prints are all over the crime scene, it's a good bet they belong to the killer, could be she didn't intend to kill him, but odds are -" John's eyes were bright and smiling at him. "Grahame, check the CCTV and see if she's there, if there's nothing more tonight -"

"Right. I'll uhm, Donovan! Quit staring, go, uhm - see about - the, uhm -"

"Yeah. Anyone catch that? I'll give you twenty quid -"

"DONOVAN! GO. NOW."

"Right, Boss. Sorry - just -" Sherlock looked up to see Donovan offer him a bit of a grin, not unfriendly, a bit sheepish, could be an apology - why an apology? He had little time to ponder the point, as John had helped him to his feet, and was steering him in the direction of Baker Street. New thoughts left him speechless as he felt John's fingers thread into his, and he changed his step to match John's. He still knew ash better than anyone, but now he knew what John's lips felt like, and his fingers... and he needed more data, much more data.

"Wait til we get home, hmmm? Enough people are already talking, don't you think?"


End file.
